


Last Stop

by manspirations



Series: Long Live Stackson! [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: A+ Parenting, Alternate Universe - Human, Families of Choice, Flashbacks of Mental and Physical Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Foster Siblings, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Peter Hale is Jackson Whittemore's Parent, Stackson Week 2017, The Fosters AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manspirations/pseuds/manspirations
Summary: Stiles Stilinski has been bounced from home to home since his father died in a fatal accident at age nine. After an incident with his last Foster family lands him at the Los Angeles Juvenile Correctional Center, he's released ten months later. Predictably, to a brand new set of parents and children. Usually, his new foster families aren't prepared for Cyclone Stilinski, but this time, the surprise is all his.(A mini the Fosters AU that made so much sense to me, it begged me to put it into words.)Written for Shenanigans (Day 6 of Stackson Week)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is one flashback of Mental/Physical Abuse. You'll see it labeled as Flashback. It's only a paragraph-worth of lines and sectioned from the rest of the plot, so totally skippable!

The gate buzzed them out and Stiles forced himself not to look back. He couldn’t stomach it, catching even the tiniest glimpse of the lingering officers. Hell, if he tried hard enough, he could still hear Officer Bowlet calling him a little bitch. It’s enough reminiscing for his last day, which brought his feet down at a quicker pace as he mentally flipped off everyone in the shitty pile of bricks.

The sun pulsed in spades, the shadows of heat grazing his body with each step closer to the door. Then, he was doused in light as his soles scraped the metal threshold. Stiles blinked around him. The last time he saw this side of the building, he was sixteen and thinner than a baby calf. Really-he’d call it a beautiful day, but how beautiful could it be when your car salesman of a caseworker was bouncing on his toes like he’d been the one fresh out of baby prison.

“Such a beautiful day, Mr. Stilinski. Just the best--” the man exclaimed, jostling him by the shoulders. Stiles jerked his arm from the man's grip, more a reflex than a reaction. It took all of his facial muscles to smile at the man, and even then, he felt his mouth slant, rather than curl, serial killer style, “You gotta do better than that kid,” his caseworker ran sweaty hands over a forty-dollar suit, “This is the real deal.”

Weren’t they all? He rolled his eyes, paying him no attention. Only the cloud-filled sky above them. As the sun warmed his bruised cheek, he clutched tighter to his bag strap. Once the man realized he wouldn’t engage in the conversation, he stopped jabbering--allowing the silence to fill between them.

It’d been minutes of AC hums before the gate clicked open, metal scraping concrete. Finally, a car screeched through the tiny opening, correction, not car, Ashton Martin. His eyes narrowed at it; the car was something his dad would have both liked and derided endlessly, with its chrome trim and thin wheels. They got those types all the time around here, probably some schmuck visiting a drug-idled brother who was too stupid to understand the concept of moderation.

For a second, he wondered if they’d stuck him with a rich family, this time. It’d certainly be different for every family he’d destroyed in the past. A part of him clung to the idea until he remembered the body he’d been trapped in, one far more suitable for louder houses with arrogant, fighting parents and even more arrogant kids. They gave the kind ones to the rich families since their slim shoulders and calm demeanors fit better in Christmas sweaters and stilted country club dinners. Or at least the kids who could play the role, like one of his buddies a year ago.

Stiles zeroed on the smooth pinwheel turns of the car as it traveled down the hill. Instead of gradually breaking like a normal person, the driver jerked to a halt a few meters away from where they stood.

“All smiles, kid,” his caseworker uttered and with a final nudge, the man bumbled ahead with a smile faker than his toupee. “Mr. Hale, hello! I hope the drive didn’t give you too much trouble.”

 _Who says stuff like that in real life?_ He scoffed, surveying the man as he ascended from the driver’s side. Stiles barely saw him at first with the sun blocking his view, but he blinked him into focus. One look told him the car matched the driver. Everything from his tight charcoal suit to his white button down hid the fact he was probably pushing fifty. If Stiles had to guess, he’d say early, mid forties.

His shirt was buttoned so low, Stiles didn’t know why the man bothered putting one on this morning. With one foot in the car and one on the ground, he flashed them a cosmetic smile, his face hidden behind manicured scruff. Stiles thought he’d remove his shades, but he never did. Even still, he could tell from the energy wafting around him that he wasn’t the only one making quick judgements.

Finally, after seconds of mutual assessment, the man, Mr. Hale, faced his caseworker, his head flickering down to stare in the direction of his caseworker’s hand. 

Stiles stifled a laugh as his caseworker eventually lowered his hand.

“In Southern California?” Mr. Hale focused back at him, giving him a look that told Stiles he needed to do a better job at hiding his amusement. “Never.”

He was so used to his foster parents avoiding his gaze, scratching their signature on a few dotted lines, and carting him off to their ratty cars. This time, as Mr. Hale scrutinized him, he could feel his razor-sharp attention calculate each of his bruises--the gray one lining his chin, his bandaged knee, sanguine cheekbones, and somehow, even the outline of his wrapped torso. No control over his limbs, he flinched back, causing more friction between his backpack and the footprint-shaped burn on his spine.

Mr. Hale opened his mouth, forcing him to inhale. “I hoped the other guy looks worse,” he cracked, his lopsided grin suggesting Stiles should join in. And he tried to, wanted to force the correction ‘guys’ out, but only air came out.

Shaking his head, the man let out another snicker, almost derisively. “Well... the demons don’t know the meaning of delivery, so dinner’s on us. And they’ll soon starve before I step into a Pizza Palace.” Quickly, he signed the necessary forms and then, his caseworker shoved him towards the Ashton Martin.

The seat melded around his butt, a first class trip to pure ecstasy. If only his asshole friends inside could see him now. He fell back as the Martin purred to life, finally, lurching backward as Mr. Hale swung them until they faced the infamous hill. Winds whipped around them from the windows, swirling in contrast to the steady thrum of the engine.

There was a single moment of calm before they were whizzing forward and all he could hear was the tapping of plastic spoons on rectangle windows. He wouldn’t turn back. He wouldn’t, even as the guys he’d spent the last year with acknowledged his release.

Soon enough, his old home grew tinier until both it and his caseworker, with his greasy elation, disappeared altogether. Stiles didn’t know why the greaser bothered with the same show anymore. Everyone knew there was no use celebrating or raising hands to God that this would be his last stop. It never was.

\--

“Home sweet home,” Mr. Hale said, turning into a vacant driveway. Stiles scoffed mentally at the bland trees and manicured grass. Then, the mundane made way to the biggest house he’d ever seen. The place stretched so wide; it deserved to be on MTV Cribs, twice. He wanted to ask so many questions. What Mr. Hale did to afford a place this massive? Why there were three other fancy cars in the slick, open driveway? Did they pour oil on it to make it so shiny? Who had the bike? Would he have his own room?

All the questions whirled in his head, but he ultimately kept them to himself. Instead, focusing on closing his mouth as the man came to a stop. “Mind carrying the grease traps? I have some work stuff to grab,” Mr. Hale jerked his thumb to the back and for the first time, he noticed the garment bags. Since the pizzas landed in his lap anyway, Stiles nodded his head. Just before he stretched out the car, Mr. Hale’s call yanked him back in.

"Stiles,” his tone froze something inside him, Mr. Hale looking him straight in the eye. “You’re safe here. For as long as you're with us, you’re good.”

His vocal chords fought the words trying to push from his mouth, so he nodded.

Eventually, after a prolonged silence, Mr. Hale seemed pleased with that. Grinning, he tossed back, “Oh and call me Peter. Go on in and follow the noise. I’ll be right behind.”

* * *

_Flashback: Age 10: Phoenix, Arizona_

“Hurry up, boy. We ain’t got all day.”

Stiles picked up his shoes, even as the bottom of his feet burned. He brought up the rear, just behind his four new brothers and sisters, as they all scurried along the cereal aisle. At his last home, the very first one, his foster dad let them each pick the cereal, one person at a time. Stiles loved his turn; he always chose _Cinnamon Toast Crunch_ because three of the other kids were allergic to cinnamon. It left more for him and Michael, the closest thing he had to a best friend back then. Maybe, he blamed that on why he decided to reach for the box when they pass it. Miss Hager smacked his hand midair.

“Did I ask you to touch anything?” her eyes darkened, until the blacks of her pupils and the dark browns of her irises matched. Stiles backed away, instinctively. You’d have thought this was his first rodeo. _Idiot_. He berated himself; he was an absolute idiot. Right there in the store, she yanked off her belt and he felt the sting before it connected with his butt. Somehow, he managed to keep the tears from spilling over as her leather collided with him.

“M’am, you can’t do that here,” someone interrupted them. It could’ve been an employee, a bystander, hell, it could have been the manager, Stiles didn’t know. All he knew was the belt, slivering away from his body. 

As metal clanked into the cart, she knocked him upside the head. “You’ll get it when we get home. Touching stuff like you’re a goddamn fool. I’ll show you.”

The next time they trudged to the store, his hands never left his pockets.

* * *

 

Stiles heard the laughter before he forced his body through the door fully. One glance at the clothes and book bags strewn over the foyer told him he wasn't the only teenager in the house. In fact, he swore the place held an entire room of them somewhere to his right, judging by the raucous cacophony. Clutching his backpack and four boxes of gourmet pizzas, he toed closer to the chaos. Despite his best effort to stave away the flutters under his skin, the pounding continued. 

What did stop was the jovial laughter once he stumbled upon the kitchen. Three of them, two boys and one girl, gawked at him from their lazy positions around a marble island. Their sudden stillness forced his own limbs to freeze. Maybe, if he backed away, they'd forget his existence, returning to their jovial status quo. But, before he had a chance to retreat, someone's stomach grumbled through the silence. Immediately, the attention snapped to the culprit--a shaggy-haired kid with a jaw more uneven than his embarrassed grin. Soon, the other two burst into teasing snickers, siphoning the tiniest of smiles from Stiles as he slid the boxes onto the counter. He counted four whole seconds after they'd hit the marble for the three of them to burst into action, contorting their bodies to tear through them. 

“Oh my goddddd. Heaven! I love you, dude,” Shaggy haired kid groaned around his first bite. “I’m Scott.” He held out a greasy hand for Stiles to shake and Stiles gave it a pointed, but amused grimace, his brows lifting. Was he meant to touch that? The oily sheen of his palm glinted off the rays peeking in from their kitchen window. Eventually, the boy--Scott--transformed it into a fist. Without a reason not to, Stiles bumped it, though he didn't offer up his name. 

“Allison,” the girl said, grinning at him. She lifted her feet from the empty stool for Stiles to fill it. Her dimples imprinted, albeit cautiously, as he slid in next to her. Since his empty hands felt like a bizarre insult, he chose a medium-sliced Pepperoni and thankfully, bit into it hard enough to capture the groan. Cheesy goodness. Searing through his taste buds. Something he hadn't been able to experience in months, not counting the plastic concoctions they slopped on top of the slices in Juvie.  

The tastes were so explosive, he could ignore the final guy, with his chiseled cheekbones, chomping without words; unlike the other two, his calculating grimace remained glued to Stiles's body. Allison seemed to notice, her eyes flicking between the two of them. "That's Isaac," she jerked her half-bitten slice at the boy, "Don't mind him. He is what he eats." 

"I'm cheese, tomato sauce, and bread?" Isaac's face shriveled as he took another chomp of his second slice. He'd been dragging it from his mouth when Allison flicked it out of his hand. 

"More like asshole, asshole," she sneered. 

Scott exploded, chunks flying in time with his laughter, "Ohhhhh. Burnn!!" His instigating caused the other two to descend into a smacking battle. Fondness radiated around them, even as insults and ouches reverberated off the stainless steel. For the first time since he'd arrived, his shoulders relaxed and he swiped another slice to eat with the show. Of every worrying scenario on the lavish drive over here, he hadn't expected this, the familiar chaos of siblings trying to kill one another. Isaac was holding Allison back with a hand to her forehead, Scott laying across the counter, gripping his quivering stomach, when a piercing whistle zinged above them. The interruption had them all untangling, minus Stiles who only had to cant his head for a glimpse of Peter, lounging against the doorframe.

"I thought we said no visitors tonight," Peter said, glaring specifically at Allison. She ducked apologetically.

"I was just leaving, Peter," Scott hopped down from the corner. He smacked a kiss on Allison's cheeks and fist bumped Isaac. To Stiles, he grinned kindly, "See you at school, dude." He said before ducking out the room in seconds, the front door shutting behind them a second later. Then, it's only the four of them. 

“Where’s Jackson?” Or not. Make that five. The gruesome twosome pointed outside, forcing a sigh from Peter. "Don't be rude. Get Stiles something to drink," was all he said before he disappeared again, grumbling about demon children and Satan's spawn. "And use plates, you heathens!" His bark floated back to them. Without the scruffy-haired one around, he could hear everything from the uncomfortable grind of a lawn mower next door to the zapping hum of the fridge. Neither one of them moved to get him that drink, neither do they stretch for the plates mere steps away from their bodies. Honestly, though, he'd be more turned off if they had jumped to Peter's request. At least now, he knew his new "Foster Siblings" weren't plucked straight from the Brady Bunch, circa 1974. 

Allison not-so-subtly assessed his battle scars as Isaac tore apart the first empty Pizza Box into shreds. That was how disinteresting Stiles was to Isaac; he already put him on his shit list. Stiles was a lot of things, but less interesting than a cardboard box was not among them. He'd been two seconds from jumping up and walking out when Allison blurted, "Isaac's adopted too." 

 _Goodbye Cardboard_ , Isaac's head snapped up, the unexpected force ripping off the top half of the box. "And Allison kills animals for fun."

"Isaac!" she smacked him, hard enough for the whack to resonate off the ceiling. 

"What? I thought we were telling him shit that's private." 

“You’re such a-a,” and whatever she’d planned to say dissolved in Round Two of _whaps_ and _smacks_. Of the dynamics he'd witnessed between adopted kids and birth kids, they took the award for most bizarre. If he hadn't seen her boyfriend strewn across the same table they were battling over, he'd might have thought they boned before--too interested in exchanging little barbs and insults to be purely innocent. After awhile, it physically pained him to continue watching. That said something, considering he lived for people making fools of themselves. Grabbing another slice, Stiles backed out the kitchen without them ever noticing. 

Whatever chaotic hell Peter brought him into moved with him from room to room. More bags flown across the floor, enough lacrosse sticks for a small team, jerseys, skateboards, a bow and arrow plopped on top of the dining room table?

He took his previous statement back. If MTV Cribs came here, they’d shoot some outside footage, take one look at all the... stuff, and hightail it out of there before they could receive eight unknown kinds of tetanus. Regardless, he knew these walls encased the fanciest rooms he’s ever been in, which probably said more about him than them.

Every time he thought he’d perused all the rooms, another hallway resurfaced. These people had a whole room for wine, an actual basketball court, and a theater! The sorcery. Pure, pure sorcery. Obviously, they didn’t need the monthly paycheck attached with his stay, which should have reassured him, but it didn’t. When he’d poked his nose in all the private of places downstairs, he decided to fuck it, dragging his hand against the railing as he descended up.

It’s more of the same, pictures of their family wrapped in ornate frames, abstract art, yadda, yadda, yadda. Everything and, yet nothing you’d expect for a family living in a house that costs more than fifty college tuitions. Stepping over a pile of clothes, he halted at a window, overlooking their backyard and beyond, stretches of similar houses below them. It stole his breath and angered him all in one fell swoop until movement caught his attention. To a guy stalking along the edge of the house. From the way the guy’s mouth moves, Stiles could tell it’s spewing nothing positive. Then again, with a body like that, it never had to.

He clenched his fists as he stared. This wasn’t happening again but... there was nothing against appreciating the view. The way his low hung basketball shorts barely curved above his hips. The ripples of his back, a sheen of sweat making it glisten in the final hour of orange sun. The guy disappeared around the corner, but the imprint of him kept Stiles’s feet glued to the carpet.

He’s not an uncontrollable fifteen year old anymore; he could look at someone and not immediately want to stick his dick inside. Unfortunately, this was not one of those moments. He blamed it on that place, depriving him of his personal time. Cursing, he inhaled for five seconds, muttering to himself, "New start, New Start.’

“Lost?”

He jumped, swiveling around with his entire body. His arm smacked the wall, right over his casted wrist too. Luckily, he was too busy dying of mortification to worry about the ebbing pain. At the end of the hall, the guy was paused in front of him, a mixture of a scowl and casual annoyance marring what was otherwise a beautiful face.

“The grass is outside.”

Stiles snorted, which only made the guy’s brows raise higher if even physically possible. It evaporated the second his gaze slid past him.

“You’re him,” the guy's nose shriveled like his caseworker didn’t make him wash with two types of soap this morning. He actually stepped back for a good look at Stiles and Stiles ignored the flush creeping over him or the insane need to adjust his wrinkled clothes for this dude, as if he needed his stupid, superficial opinion. The guy's concluding reaction? A scoff and the tick of his head as he jerked for him to follow down the hall.

They stopped at a closed door, one with a lacrosse decal on the door, a bright red ‘Jackson’ sketched over it.  _So, this was their fifth._ Stiles cursed mentally. Of course it was. 

“That’s yours,” he flicked a hand towards the next open door. “Touch my stuff and I’ll slit your throat, newbie.”

"The hospitality in this house is astounding." Of the two of them, neither of them were more surprised of his voice, than Stiles--well, the crackling, raspy version of his voice before his brain registered that he'd even spoken. He'd heard a faint snort, barely audible over the slam of wood and cement. Stiles suspected Jackson slammed the door to hide the tilt of his mouth he caught before he was once again alone in a foreign place. At the risk of not seeming like a loser, he crossed the foot to his own room and closed the door with an inaudible click. 

Pivoting, he wasn't sure which deserved his attention first--the dark gray walls and red trimmed ceiling, the huge bed, his own name blinking neon red over said bed, the TV, or the open bathroom door with a view to yet another room. He started toward it, thinking it must be another extension to his room when the door slammed. Same mirroring force. The second door slammed because of his presence. This one connecting to their shared bathroom. Just perfect. Stiles flopped back on the bed with a sigh.

* * *

You’d think sleep would have came easy to him, but he tossed and turned until his body drifted off from exhaustion. All too soon, someone tapped his good shoulder, startling him awake. For a split instance, he slammed back into that room with the slit of a window and the putrid piss smell in the right corner where one of his roommates relieved themselves in the dark hours of the night. Only when he focused on the obvious warmth from the bay window could he inhale without his throat restricting him.

Then, he opened his eyes again to Allison, still standing there only a few steps back. In the span of those nanoseconds, she’d gone from beaming down at him to a concerned scrutiny, the kind of intense stare that made him believe she really did enjoy the thrill of a hunt.

“Hi,” she drew, accessing his reaction. He didn’t give her the satisfaction, maintaining his blinking stare. “Peter and my dad thought we’d show you around today.” The tiniest part of him wanted to ask for a clarification of ‘we.’ Allison and Peter? Allison and her dad that wasn’t Peter? Allison and Isaac? Allison, Isaac AND Jackson? A full on family trip with this mysterious other Father included? Regardless, he twitched too restless to stay inside and too wary about being the beat up poor orphan in a land of silicone and sun tans, so he nodded, hoping that’d get her to leave. It didn’t.

“Really? Okay, yeah, breakfast is on the table if you’re hungry. And Jackson put towels and stuff in your bathroom in case, you want a shower. Not that I’m saying you stink cause you don’t.”

“I think he gets it loser,” Jackson said loud enough that they both turned towards their shared bathroom.

“Was I talking to you? No,” she tossed back without the venom of true annoyance. “See you downstairs, Stiles.”

He laid there minutes after she left, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, he slid from the comfort of his bed and trudged for a shower. Even over the medicinal smell of the bar soap, he could smell bacon wafting through the vents. It’s a smell he hasn’t smelled in months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember. Since he didn’t really know what one wore to a day out on the town, he threw on the first thing in his bag--a button down he stole from his last foster brother and some khaki shorts, both of which were slightly wrinkled.

Heads snapped his way when he entered the kitchen, a variant of facial expressions greeting him from elation to obvious distrust. Isaac--cough--cough. If Peter wasn’t gesturing for him to sit, Stiles would sneer back. Assholes he knew how to handle, frou frou Disney princesses that could kill you, he did not. Jackson didn’t even bother looking up from his phone, which didn’t phase him. Though, it made him that much more curious.

“Stiles, sit before these kids eat all my bacon,” Peter all but dragged him into one of the open seats, right across from Isaac and next to the other empty seat.

He lowered down as he stared at the spread of food--pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits, some white glob that looked too clunky to be grits.

Peter cackled when he reached over it all to get water. “You’re not one of those vegans, are you?”

“It’s offensive to put ‘those’ in front of vegans,” Isaac spewed crumbs that almost touched his plate had Stiles not nudged it with his elbow.

“They should be offended. Not to worry, Stiles we’ll cure that right up,” the man patted the table as close to his plate as he could, while also shoving him the eggs.

Anybody else and that would sound hella creepy. On Peter, it sounded moderately creepy, but only because he suspected Peter was just that type of person.

“Who’s curing what on Stiles?” A new voice, deep and loud as its speaker’s footsteps, sounded from the kitchen. He straightened his back just the tiniest bit. There’s always a good cop, bad cop situation in these type of situation. Obviously, Peter played the role of good cop, which meant nothing positive from his husband. Trying to occupy himself, he filled his plate with eggs and a biscuit as the man thundered through the door.

“Your husband thinks Stiles needs curing of veganism, dad,” Allison threw him a wink, cause that’s supposed to mean something.

“Let the boy eat what he wants to eat.”

And that’s the moment he choked on his biscuit. Because in walked Chris Argent. The Chris Argent from every best-selling action movie this world’s ever seen...well since his birth. The same Chris Argent who beams at him with the exact same smile as Allison’s, only he’s wearing Superman pajama bottoms. Chris Argent wears superman pjs! His eyes stung with tears, they’re blown so wide. Oh, and he’s still choking cause you know, this is his life now.

“Isaac, help him.” Someone squawked.

“What?! I’m letting nature take its course.”

“Isaac!” He heard a whop and then, a hand began rapping on his back, interspersing between soothing rubs. His eyes cleared to Allison stretching cross over Isaac, who was also jacking food from her plate as she double-check Stiles for who knows what. He muttered a thanks and this time, that did get her to retreat, albeit with a cautious smile.

“Day 1 and you almost killed the stray,” Jackson said with a snort, which made Isaac laugh. “Congratulations.”

“Call him that again and you’ll know one of those lacrosse sticks you love intimately,” Peter said.

He assumed that grunt was the beginning of an apology, but even that didn’t get him to look up. The Chris Argent, still standing at the mouth of the dining room with his pitcher of orange juice, glanced around at his family, one by one until he landed on Stiles.

“Welcome to the Family. I’m Chris,” he smiled with his entire face. Clearly, Allison learned from the best. He might actually perish in this house, but it sure as hell was gonna be the most entertainment since that time they placed him smack in the middle of a cult.

As quickly as it spiralled, the room returned to normal. Chris squeezed into the seat next to him and introduced himself as if he needs introduction. Allison rambled to Jackson about double date ideas between their significant others--scruffy-haired dude and some girl named Lydia. With just grunts, Jackson either agreed or disagreed with her as he picked fruit straight from the tray. Peter talked over her as he and Isaac discuss theories for some show they watch Thursday nights. Above all, no one noticed him casually search for cameras, just to be sure he’s not on a new reality show called, My New Family’s Crazier than Yours.

His dad taught him how to peruse a room when he was seven, so he knew what to look for. And, even though there wasn’t a camera in sight, he could still feel someone watching him. Except whenever he looked up, Jackson was looking down.

Before they could leave, they had to wait for Isaac to change out of his shirt. Something about jelly stain and appearances, Stiles stopped listening to him as he leaned against the back door with Allison. Finally, Peter drug him downstairs with specific instructions to be nice and buy whatever Stiles needed for school.

The second time they’re out, everyone started heading toward separate cars, Allison to a dark blue Acura, Jackson to a flashy Porsche, and Isaac a white Range Rover. He paused on the ledge, just inside the front door, watching them as they wait for him. Literally, they were all headed to the same place. He’ll never understand this family. Cackling, Peter clapped him on the back, pushing him the extra step out the house.

“Choose wisely.”

“Should probably just stay here then.”

That made Peter crack up even more, “Funny, have fun.” Shoving him down the stairs, the door clicked with a finality behind him.

As the three of them headed for their respective driver seats, Stiles couldn't help but wonder what alternative universe he'd landed in. And, if he'd survive it long enough for him to turn eighteen and escape this madness all together. He hadn't noticed he'd been staring in Jackson's directions until the dude smirked at him, then slowly affixed his sunglasses to his face, before disappearing behind the shadows of his Porsche. Only one year left.

He muttered as the Porsche roared, "Only one."

 


	2. Third times's the charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note--A panic attack doesn't occur, but there is mention of one.

Obviously, Stiles stood too long, blinking at the three of their pointed glares or impatient glimmers. He could see the relaxed sneer through Isaac's windshield as the guy jerked into action. When Isaac's tires screeched, swiveling around the driveway, Jackson guffawed, his smirk evident behind his own tinted window.

Then, there were only two: him and Allison, her hands drumming over the wheel as if she was thinking through the consequence of leaving him too. Despite the Acura's polished blue exterior, the reek of detritus and citronella assaulted him once he crashed down, a smell potent enough for him to wonder whether Isaac's admission of her hobbies were truer than her aesthetic implied. She wasted no time reversing them. Soon, they were zooming down the hill in the opposite direction Peter brought them. 

Blurry trees thinned with every mile she wound down and he swore she'd spend the journey trying to pry information from him. Logically based on the constant gleam in her eye whenever she thought he wasn't observing. Maybe her desire to fill the awkward silence forced her to toggle on music, releasing the beginnings of a quick beat and impressive bass. One song turned to two, two to three, and so, all of them formulaically upbeat as if she used them to train for those animals she might be slaughtering. 

Stiles rapped his foot to the beat while he characterized his surroundings, the twisting beaches on his right and rolling mansions on his left, cars parked so close to Allison's car he could reach out and glide his hands over their side mirrors. Finally, they reached the first stoplight in miles right at the mouth of what he supposed was Downtown. Having never ventured into this part of town, he soaked it in. And what he saw... he'd seen before: the Starbucks, the colorful Boutiques pretending to sell something other than manufactured garbage, the fading red rooftops, the overpriced gas stations. His lip upturned at the unwanted nostalgia pouring over him.

Allison's hand was cruising the ninth quickening beat when he shifted for a look at her view. At first, it wasn't sight that stole his attention, rather the thundering dissonance of another driver's music, in the middle of _Snoresville._

Two drivers, in fact. They quaked the concrete beneath them, even over Allison's music. He tracked them to the cars stopped at the Main Street and immediately recognized the two leading the charge, a Range Rover in the left and a Porshe in the right. 

Allison, too busy searching for an optimal time for turning, hadn't yet noticed her brother. She was also too preoccupied to see him craning his neck for a better view. Isaac's curls bobbing forcefully, dramatically to a song that'd be more suitable for a Superbowl party or a Fight Club than a rich boy rocking a scarf in his car. 

Jackson, though hidden behind darker windows, came to Stiles's sight in 1080p. He watched as Jackson cranked the volume of whatever he blasted to combat Isaac's song. Too much electric guitar and  _way_ too much bellowing for 11 in the morning.

Of course, insulting everyone in a one mile vicinity wasn't enough. As the crosswalk light began blinking its red hand, warning a set of older ladies from braving the journey across the street, Isaac and Jackson started revving their engines. First Isaac, the rev of his Range Rover imitating more of a smoker coughing. Then Jackson's retaliated, toying dangerously into the intersection, his engine scrawling like a moped ran into an angry beagle. 

No other cars, not even Allison seemed phased by the two boys out-douching each other. Everyone, but Stiles could break away. 

Two Guys. Different Biological Parents. Different Music. Different Styles. Different everything, and yet they were forcing the world to witness their brotherly pissing contest. Even in spite of his new antipathy for Isaac, Stiles chortled as the Pretty Boy flicked Jackson off, slamming in front of him the second the light flipped green. 

 "What?" Allison threw at him after she curved right, instead of straight like her brother. When he didn't answer, she pivoted toward their direction. At the sight of the disappearing cars, exhaust in their wake. 

Scoffing, she clutched tight to the wheel, "Idiots. You learn to ignore it. Be thankful this a good week."

He doubted it, shrugging his shoulders anyway. She must have taken it for an opening, canting her head, "You ever lived here before?" Her tone was casual to mask the curiosity clouding her trained irises. 

He weighed whether talking to her would lead to more conversation, perhaps a heart-to-heart about their childhoods and their favorite things and their struggles, if she even knew the definition of such word. On one hand, he need to ease the constant ache of his throat, but the other, clung to the false reputation they'd already assigned him: silent, tortured soul. At his other homes, the only things he'd ever tortured were the egos of his beloved "family" members and the occasional curly fries he snuck on the way home from school.

"You could say that," he settled on, adding an indifferent toss of his head. Her eyes crinkled, calling his bullshit, but she didn't press him on it.

She waited three blocks later to reply, "You don't like talking, do you?" 

He ran his finger back and forth on her dashboard, "It depends." 

"On?" 

Stiles grinned, "Who I'm talking to." He'd shifted his body completely towards her, jean-clad knees brushing her gear shift. This time, he expected an affronted huff, an eye roll, anything to show he'd insulted her. Out of all the possible reactions, he didn't expect a high-pitched cackle intermixing with the whistle tones of her House mix. 

Her eyes disappeared behind the wrinkles of her smirk, "Touche, smart ass. I was thinking bout giving you a tour, but now..." she paused, both side-eyeing him and the abandoned apartment complex ahead of them. 

"No one's stopping you," he gestured to the road with an ornate swirl of his palm. 

"Uh huh, clearly." Thus began the Allison Guide to the Pacific Palisades, in her words, the land of the "Rich and Rude." Restaurants, stores, crevices not to get caught in at night, and odd little facts until the neighborhood changes. From structure palm trees and moms running with strollers to dudes boarding off concrete corners and overflowing trash bins. It's the type of place his caseworker would've shipped him off to before. He rolled down the window, inhaling easier. 

"And this is Scott's place," she finished off her tour with a final turn into a dense forestry hiding an L shaped yellow Stucco apartments, the whole landscape an intense argument between green and yellow. Scott had been already outside next to a bank of mailboxes, four girls galloping around his legs with two jump ropes swarming him.

He and Allison, far too entertained to honk, marveled as the four girls enticed Scott into a game of Double Dutch. Scott fumbled the first whirl of the ropes, which the girls paired with needling teases, their smiles blown wide. 

Scott doubled-over, "Ok, ok, Ok! Again." Stiles figured he was wheezing or laughing, probably a mix of both. Sure enough, the second go round, his feet came down more firmly than the first, eventually ducking up and down inside blurring neon. Allison's dashboard clock changed twice before Scott noticed them sitting there. When he did, he managed to break away from the girls with minimum fuss, tagging one girl in as he jumped himself out. 

Allison didn't tell him to, but Stiles hopped out anyway. On his way, Scott clapped him on the back like they'd known each other longer than yesterday, "Hey man!" He exclaimed, voice hoarse and stretched from activity. 

Stiles flipped back a quick, "hey," mostly because his body physically wouldn't allow him to disrespect someone so open and genuine. So, even as his butt was forced to warm a whole new seat, he felt himself almost grinning. 

Allison handed him her water bottle, which Scott rewarded with a kiss to her temple, then pivoted to face him, "What's good man? Have a good first night?"

"If by good you mean did I sleep like a newborn in a $1500 crib, then yeah I did," the words slipped out naturally and without his permission, gaining an easy snicker from their new car mate. 

"Oh, so you like him, huh?" Allison rolled her eyes in the rearview, her lips pursing while she eased them through traffic. 

He feigned innocence, his mouth slowly mirroring the upward trajectory of hers. Of course, Scott took the time to flip between the two of them, the confusion more evident on his face than his skewed elation. After that, Allison and Scott filled in the conversation for him, picking up whatever conversation they started last night. Something about winter break plans and convincing her dads of some epic ski trip. Based on Peter's grimace at the kid's mere existence last night, Stiles doubted the likelihood of any of it. 

He gladly faded into the background as his view shifted, once again dropping the cracking grit and returning to smooth jet concrete. He counted three more songs before their destination loomed ahead--a capitalistic shopping extravaganza known only as the Sherman Oak Galleria. Knowing they'd drag him if he didn't, he hopped out in time with Scott and Allison. 

Scott filled the space next to him, Allison flanking him on the other side, "Bro, I apologize in advance." 

"Shut it. We're not that bad," Allison bickered back, then twinkled at Stiles, "It'll be painless, promise."

Refusing to address the last part, he halted, "We?" _Nope,_ already, he was weary of whatever plans they'd trapped him into, especially considering Isaac and Jackson's ghosting act. Allison, instead of reassuring him, stashed her keys in the back pocket of her shorts, flicked bangs from her eyes, and nudged him forward with the knock on his shoulders. Inhaling could only soothe some of the jumpiness inside him as the rounded a florid fountain, the wind whispering mist against his threadbare shirt as they passed. 

They'd breached the door and swaggered passed a row of fluorescent stores.  _You got this,_ he told himself,try on a few outfits, accept their price tags, eat greasy food, all while chilling with Scott and teasing Allison.  _You got this._

"Thank God. Any longer and I was going to shoot them  _myself."_ An authoritative, yet silken voice hissed to their immediate right, causing Allison to beam, changing their trajectory all together. 

Horror cut his expression as they faced the newcomer, correction newcomers. The owner of the voice could star in his nightmare, a girl with meticulously straight strawberry hair, beady eyes, and overly bright red lips. Her complexion's pale enough, she could play an apparition in a Paranormal Activity. As she strode over to them in heels, her feet make not a sound on the tiled floor. 

A shudder ripped through him and if asked, he couldn't say whether out of terror or lust. 

"Where were you?" She grumbled, her arms crossing over a thin sleeveless top, tucked seamlessly into skinny jeans. Then, time trickled, as her gaze drifted from Allison to Scott to him, her eyes blooming. "Oh, I see," she strutted closer, stepping into his personal space. He couldn't blame Scott when the guy stepped further from his side.

With the new gap, she orbited around him, heels  _still_ without a clack. Instead, Stiles could hear the judgements in the air, feel the heat radiating from her Starbucks mug, catch the succulent spice trailing her. His gut tightened, eyes torn on which part of her was safe to land on: her eyes and he'd meet her challenge, anything below and he'd start a different riot.  

"Huh," she muttered, coming to a stop in front of him. "I figured uglier. Good, we have something to work with." Her hair swayed as she jerked away, linking arms with Allison and venturing deeper into the mall, "Do keep up, boys." She cut behind her and with that, they were rounding the corner. He didn't allow himself an exhale until her fragrance evaporated too.

Any hope the other guys would follow them and give them time to recover dissipated in a blur, when Jackson's body replaced hers, throwing him against the wall.

"Here," Jackson hissed, throwing a napkin at him, the crinkled, brown paper grazing through his fingers then cascading to the ground. He didn't look at it or pick it up. He drug his gaze forward, tracking the tick of Jackson's jaw, loosening and tightening like he had to stop himself from blurting something he couldn't retract. The chill death of his irises shot liquid venom through Stiles, heating him from the thrill of it.

He wished Jackson would unleash whatever insult burnt his touch. He was itching for one of his own; fifteen hours and he'd only released a single thought about these people. Jackson toed the final few inches into his face, his tone guttural, "Drooling's unattractive," the asshole susurrated.

Stiles expected something more scathing, ego-wrenching. His lips quirked nonetheless, happy for even that. Slowly, he bent down and cradled the dirt-speckled napkin, turning it in his palm. He caught the bated attention of Scott, Isaac and another guy he hadn't acknowledged until this moment. Their expressions a mixture between mild interest and bored as they all waited for Stiles's next move. 

"Your girl didn't think so, did she?" Stiles whispered back, puncturing his words with a subtle cant of his head, mouth stretching this over teeth as he stuffed the napkin in the dome-shaped hole of Jackson's drink. 

Two snorts floated above them, but nothing could get him to snatch away from the way Jackson reared back. He spotted the instantaneous difference between Jackson's genuine anger and forced anger, considering this totaled their second exchange of words and fourth swap of gazes. 

"Watch yourself, stray. I control you now," Jackson bit back. He had this feeling--had they been alone, this conversation would've teetered into dangerous territories. 

"You can try," he flipped back anyway, the words barely above an inaudible huff this time. 

Scott, still flanking his side, snorted again as he knocked into his side, "Let's hit it. They've probably already found you the tightest jeans by now." 

Without a choice, he followed Scott's lead, sidestepping Jackson until his space returned to his again. Unsurprisingly, Isaac swaggered up to Scott's other side, effortlessly striding without glancing away from his screen. Most surprisingly, Isaac spared one impressed grimace at Stiles as if it pained him to do so. That, plus Jackson's gaze on his back kept his heart pumping far beyond their corner turn. 

"Why was that so satisfying?" he couldn't help but ask as they journeyed. 

Scott choked a laugh, "...the Lydia thing or the Jackson thing?" 

He actually thought about it, should probably be concerned he hadn't thought of them as mutually exclusive until Scott mentioned it, "Both?" 

"Lydia Martin basically checked you out dude," Scott hummed, "And Jackson didn't kill you for it." 

Isaac chirped an affirmation, still preoccupied with his other conversation, "You might actually be useful for something, if only to piss that idiot off." 

"Geez, you say the kindest things to me." 

That got Isaac to break from his phone, lock eyes with Stiles, his expression screwing cheeky elation as he flipped Stiles off, "I do, don't I? Anyway, duty calls. Later assholes." Saluting, Isaac pivoted toward the opposite foot traffic, his chunky cardigan drifting in artificial wind. 

He only glanced back once to share a final smirk with Scott then he was juking between bodies until he too, blended with the crowd. Stiles turned back, cataloguing the seconds Scott’s gaze lingered behind them. Hour Fifteen and the cracks were already starting to form.

* * *

Three hours, ten bags, and seven dressing rooms later, Stiles owned more clothes now than he had in his seventeen years combined: jeans, shorts, tank tops, button downs, leather jackets, and vests! Who still wore vests? Not, Stiles that's who, even if Lydia tried to force his limbs into that “chambray” monostrosity. The four of them (plus Jackson and unnamed dude he now knew as Danny joined them around store #4) sauntered their way to the Mall’s routunda. More accurately, Lydia and Allison sauntered while the rest of them trudged to the center, then plopped along the fountain’s cobalt edge. Water spritzed against his back from the thin arches vaulting into the center. Unlike Allison and Lydia, who immediately scurried to the opposite benches at the first touch of water, he reveled in the splash, one step from worship entirely.

They all talked around him, despite their unsubtle attempts to box him in: Lydia diagonally across from his edge of the fountain, her outstretched legs separating him and Jackson, Allison on the bench next to Lydia's with Scott teetering off his part of the fountain as if her body magnetized his. Finally, Danny furthest from him on the other side of Lydia, his boat shoes squeaking louder than his hushed conversation with Jackson.

Any other person would sulk about being invisible to such a flashy group of people. In fact, he’d seen several of those people over the course of the day, peeking through storefronts or trailing behind them from store to store. He thought he might have even witnessed one or two cameras.

Rather, he used the chaotic silence to observe them, especially once Isaac slid to Scott’s side, his entourage four people deeper than when he’d left.

“About time,” Scott smacked a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, his attention shifting entirely from one sibling to the next, “Where’d you-” The question died on his tongue as Scott seemed to notice the four bodies joining them, “Oh hey guys,” his smile wavered before reconstructing again. Stiles made note of the hesitation.

_Isaac’s Entourage: Don’t Like._

And he could automatically see why with their expressions ranging from smug (the hot blonde) to indifference (the hulking, dark one) to pinched displeasure (the Shades wearing douchebag) to bland irritation (the stoic brunette). No one besides Scott spared them more than a smile and a half-hearted wave. For the other group, vice-versa, though the Blonde gleamed at him, her eyes cataloging every inch of his body, biting down on Candy Red lips as if they held in lurid profanities.

A shiver slicked through him, thick yet pinching as he stared back at her, begging those words to be released. Even if he liked the anynomity, the part of him that craved entertainment was growing antsy. Besides, there were no rules about friends of foster siblings. He locked gazes with her long enough for that smug leer to widen, lips parting in an innocent grin. Before she could fully stand, Isaac caught on and pushed her back down with nothing more than his right hand.

Isaac sneered at the invisible line connecting the two of them, “Not if you want to live another day.”

She pouted, instead using her momentum to fall into Hulky’s lap instead, “Me or him?”

“Both.”

She muttered something, sounding a lot like ‘buzzkill,’ and even that dissipated as Hulky smothered her lips with a kiss, one too handsy and heated for a Sunday afternoon in public. The dissonance of grumbles and whoops rippled around the group; all of them so preoccupied with the show they don’t notice his confused arousal in the corner. Of course, all except Jackson.

“Don’t bother,” Jackson rasped, somehow closer to his right side than Stiles remembered. The heat of his words, battling with the coolness of the water, forced a jitter from Stiles that he attempted to mask. If Jackson’s barely audible snicker was any indication of his success, he failed, “the wandering eye on that one always goes back to him. Has been since she dropped the shakes and picked up the miniskirts.”

“What?” He matched Jackson’s hushed tone, surprisingly managing to avoid the attention of the nine pairs of ears encircling them.

“Epilepsy.”

 _Ohh,_ he nodded, connecting how her interest in him could be more ego stroke than anything genuine. “Third times the charm huh?” Stiles smirked, his brain already moving on from the PDA still occuring to his left.

Jackson reared away from him, the chill unfortunately returning, “What.”

Rolling his eyes, he canted his head down as if that could hide the beginnings of his stupid grin, “Our third conversation. You haven’t threatened me yet.”

“The moment’s still young.”

 _The moment._ Stiles snorted, then used the excuse of his bags getting wet to slide them to his left, thereby gliding closer to the right, now inches from Jackson’s side. This time, Danny did peak up from his phone, squint between the two of them, shake his head, and return to his screen. “So, you’re all friends then?” He blurted, returning his volume to the same intoning level by divine intervention.

Jackson blinked at him long enough Stiles started fearing he hallucinated their entire previous barbs. He counted five Mississippis, every one of them drawned out by syllables. Apparently, they'd moved past earlier since Jackson rolled his eyes, “They wish. No--Danny’s my dude and Lydia’s my girl. For now, at least.”

Stiles choked, jerking to catch if she’d heard the expiration date Jackson put on their relationship. Luckily, she’d preoccupied herself with Allison, their conversation having turned to some STEM program she’d applied to for the summer, her eyes alight with rapt fascination.

“Like she won’t tell you the same.” Jackson’s nose curled up, marring the smooth ebb of his skin. “She’s ‘best friends’ with Ally-” This time, Jackson’s scrutiny naturally drifted over to his sister. Despite his attempts to feign annoyance in front of Stiles, the crinkles of Jackson’s eyes sunk back into his skin, “Clearly a poor choice, if you ask me. Oh and, keeping with poor choices, Ally’s with Scott, who has some gross bromance thing with Isaac.”

Now that, Stiles already gathered. It felt reactionary, in that moment, to observe the two in question. And, Jackson must have thought so too because he mirrored Stiles’s shift, his knee brushing Stiles’s shin, bullseying right into a still ruddy bruise.

He fought back a flinch, but not from a spike of pain or tenderness or any reaction expected after getting jumped. Rather, from a slow heat blanketing him, somehow soothing an inkling of the aches threatening to keep him blinking awake last night. So focused on the temporary relief, when Jackson’s narration recommenced, he actually jumped.

“I call it denial,” Jackson bit out, his tone dripping with enough judgement for Scott and Isaac, Stiles’s moment of relapse escaped him all together. Jackson shifted even closer, “Isaac’s so secretly bitchy about them dating, he’s been flirting with my cousin, Cora.” Jackson flicked his head to the frowning brunette, who’s in a heated debate with Dr. Shades. “I hear them on the phone sometimes, giggling, bickering. It’s all very pseudo-incesy.”

“And the other three?” He couldn’t help the words as they tumbled out, even as he caught Danny giving them a speculative gleam from his other corner. And once he spied Stiles peeping him, Danny stood firm to his interested perusal, canting the corner of his lip an inch.

Jackson noticed none of it, “Unimportant. Ebony and Ivory come with the incesy duo.”

Stiles blinked pointedly until Jackson got with the program, finally huffing like speaking their names were like conjuring Death, “Erica and Boyd. Try to keep up, loser.”

Stiles snorted, shifting in place. This time, he was the one catching Jackson’s jaw tense and contract.

The asshole powered on like Stiles hadn’t caught him, “Derek’s just here cause Aunt Talia took Cora’s car cause her grades are shit. He drives them around like the bland pushover he is.”

With the relief plus the overdose of information, his head began to throb, first a muted thrum and then growing stronger. Too much conflict, too much history flowed between them and that was before the Anger Entourage showed up. Now, he had to deal with fake-incest, bland brothers, and whatever that was--he spied Scott draping over Isaac’s lap to speak to Cora. Jesus.

“Fuck,” the word fell out more reflex, than reaction. “So, Scott and Isaac, they’re...”

“Hot for each other?” Jackson shrugged, as if cheating was normal around here, “Banging behind Ally’s back? Everyone speculates.”

“Besides Allison.”

“Besides Allison,” Jackson echoed back, his.

“Jackson-” Danny called, effectively driving Jackson away from him with one word. He left without a single glance to Stiles, as if their conversation hadn’t existed at all. Worse yet, his knee took less than a second to revert back to that fucking dull pinch. He occupied himself with thoughts of Allison, how she twinkled when Scott settled a hand over her thigh, but used the same eyes to sneer as Scott played verbal footsy with Isaac. Suddenly, the talking, the touching, the moving parts suffocated him. The knowledge that he’d always be an observer creepily standing on the outside, resenting the fact that he wanted more, especially when the only thing keeping such warmth from him was himself.

Then, other past lives joined the mental party. Other friend groups. Other couples. Other foster siblings. All of them more of the same. Except for the one bright spot, his only friend who, as of two years ago, was now gone too.

His legs took over, bringing him to his feet and pounding away before a full attack overcame him. If anyone looked his way, he didn’t know, too focused on carrying the beat of his breathing. A normal person would fear the onslaught of panic, but Stiles reveled. He loved the edge, the control it took to teeter rather than dive. It's the only true form of control he’d found.

When he blinked outside of himself, he found himself standing in the food court, reds and blue streams vaulting a window-pained ceiling. The mirage of sweet fried goodness filling his nose as families and couples and pockets of friends fill the table. Of all the shopping today, this was the only time he felt the five dollars in his pockets weigh heavier. The same five he’d kept hidden under his mattress for years, the one his dad gave to him. And, he was debating spending it on a Cinnabon and tap water. Pathetic.

“Sir. Sir. What can I get you?” A girl said, her eyes are wide like she can’t tell whether he’s drunk or not all there.

He opened his mouth to soothe her discomfort when a voice, both soft and gruff, spoke for him. “Two mini buns, two waters, and a diet coke,” The voice thundered, despite its butter smoothness. He followed the sound, his head cracking as he turned. Chiseled beard, a scowl, and those damn Shades peer back at him. Derek, Jackson called him.

He couldn’t see the guy’s glare, but he could feel it, flicking between him and the girl until she eventually swiped his card. The next few moments happened so quickly, he couldn’t retell when they moved to a nearby table with a burnt blue tray in front of them, food neatly piled on top of it.

“Here,” Shades grunted and a second later, one of the buns was shoved in his face, which he refused to pull any closer.

Instead, Stiles mouth gaped, despite knowing Derek would huff frustrated because of it. Eventually, he stammered out, “what.”

His simple utterance caused Derek to grimace, crossed arms stretching his expensive leather. “You were crying.”

Had he been? “No, I wasn’t,” he blurted, reaching up to touch his face just in case; only, when he pulled them back, they were moist, his skin already drying stiff.

“I already bought it. Sit.”

It wasn’t like he could walk off. Well, he could, but that seemed more of a Isaac, true-asshole move to pull, instead of his brand of sarcastic asshole. So, he played the only move he had. He sat, grunting down onto the squeaky chair. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Derek bantered back, the semblance of amusement barely crackling his expression. Sitting there, picking apart the edges of his pastry, he expected Derek to barrage him with questions like everyone else. The guy’s face remained expressionless, at least the parts revealed to Stiles. He didn’t even reach for the other cinnamon roll, his fingers practically digging into his arms now. It occurred to him then that Derek might feel more uncomfortable about this interaction than him.

Bland pushover, the words re-etched themselves in his mind.

Smirking, Stiles cracked his neck, then popped the first bite in his mouth. His grimace grew the second Derek’s shoulders tensed in a way that could only mean acknowledgment of his own dramatic shift.

“So,” he paused, savoring the spike of sweet, “What’s your role in the Great Dynamic?”

Derek jerked his head a few inches up. Stiles couldn’t see it, but he imagined him blinking once, twice, three times as if to help him decipher the shit spewing from Stiles’ mouth. Unfortunately for Derek, not much could. “What?”

“Where do you fit,” Stiles droned again, smacking obnoxiously as he did, “in this passive aggressive cesspool? Someone’s lover? Ooh, ex lover?” He gasped, “A baby daddy?!”

Derek fake-blinked again, then uncrossed his arms, his fists unclenching as he folded them over the table, “You watch too much TV.”

“You would think so, but nope,” he shrugged. “Dynamic, you, babies?”

“Try college dropout working at car garage. Utter disappointment to a family of overachievers,” Derek actually told him with a prideful clarity that confused him. Why would someone admit their failures to a stranger? And without an ounce of regret seeping through their expression? He felt his smugness drop from his smirk, Derek’s seriousness infectious enough to sullen the asshole inside of him.

“The black sheep,” Stiles tsked as he played with another strip of gooey bread, “How old are you?”

The skin between Derek’s masked eyes crinkled, “Does it matter?”

Rather than reply, Stiles shrugged.

“Twenty-one.”

And that, above everything he’d learned about Derek, shocked him most. He’d prepared himself to hear 26 or 28, an age matching the anguish, the wisdom scratching his picture-perfect visage.

“Oh, that’s not bad,” Stiles waved it off, flinging crusted icing in the process “You still have time to start the next internet sensation. Started from the bottom now you’re here.”

Derek gripped his sunglasses and lowered them, unveiling sage eyes that glinted off rays of sunlight who chose this exact moment to stream through the sun roof. Stiles snorted, his head shaking to stave off the laughter. Of course, why would Derek be any less stunning than the other people he frequented. A little too rough around the edges for his taste, but his gut physically hurt from looking at him.

If Derek noticed him gawking, he hid his disgusted reaction well. “They said you didn’t talk,” he flipped back instead.

“They don’t know me.”

“Clearly,” Derek’s lip curled up, just a couple centimeters shy of smile territory. Then, his eyes flickered past Stiles’s shoulders and everything shuttered to a close. Standing abruptly, Derek shoved the roll to Stiles’s side and rapped on the table, “See ya around kid. Watch yourself around them, around him.”

“You’re four years older than me!!” he couldn’t help but shout after than him, yanking Derek smirk back before disappearing into the crowd. Less than a second later, a butt bumped him over, chairs scraping to surround every edge of the table.

“It’s Erica, freshmeat,” his new blonde seat mate purrs, her strikingly cold breath curling over his cheek. “Use it.” She stole Derek’s roll and somehow, he knew she’d swirl a finger through the icing. What did surprise him was the casual way she held it to her boyfriend then groaning as Boyd swirled his tongue around it, his gaze searing. He 100% believed they’d go at it right on top of him.

“Ew.”

“Get a room pervs!”

“No, get two.”

“Don’t nobody want to see that.”

More and more, the noise around him reverberated like they’d been transported to the set of a YA book movie adaptation. Allison and Scott taking the opportunity to act as sickening. Lydia lecturing them all about decorum. Issac and the mean, tiny-one, Cora, throwing their smoothie straw paper at both couples. Danny chuckling, his composure still as cool as the color of his Teal V-neck. (Stiles bet it’d feel good to break him down one day.) And finally, perched on Lydia’s chair right across from him, Jackson, who hadn’t ceased cocking a brow between Stiles and the second plate, now the only evidence of Derek’s presence.

Stiles felt the intensity sear into his forehead and it’d only intensified as the rest of them spurned on. So, he glimmered back, too over stimulated for more retaliation, yet too prideful for surrender. Laughter and clapbacks dulled around him, audible enough, he could register music filtering in from hidden speakers.

_Watch yourself around them, around him._

Him was clearly Jackson. Who else orbited around him today worthy of a warning, certainly not Scott.

 _Maybe Isaac_ , Stiles thought, but he could sense that five minutes in from the undercurrent of suppressed electricity that exuded from him.

The question was painted clear in Jackson's glint, _what could he and Derek possibly have to laugh about._ Rather than answer, Stiles smirked and focused back on the group. No need to give away all his secrets so soon.

* * *

 

When they journeyed back to the house, they did so without Isaac and his blasting Drake or Jackson and his Black Keys. Both of them lured away by the talks of parties and vacationing parents. Only him, Allison and Scott were left, silently passing Peter’s Ashton and a prosaic black SUV in the garage, the only evidence that his new guardians were even home.

He could hear carpet crunching under his soles because of the silence. _Krsh, krsh, krsh,_  mixing with his rustling paper bags, all the way upstairs. And once they’d mottled his floor with shopping bars, Scott and Allison begged off too, their skittering _krsh, krsh_ telling him everything he needed to know about their next few hours. Meanwhile, he braved one glance at his feet, the bags in a spiral around them and trust fell into his mattress. His back impacted with plush padding, save for a hard-edged cube into his shoulder blade.

Untarnished sat an iphone box, one that hadn’t been there when he left this morning.

Stiles hesistated. Knowing this house, this could be a set up. Perhaps not from Allison or Jackson, but Isaac would definitely stash something in his room and run to his daddies about the new thief under their roof. He’d almost convinced himself when bulky letters caught his eye.

“STILES.” “FOR YOU,” Random person had written across the side of the box. He flipped the cardboard in his palms, noting its heaviness. Not empty. When was the last time he owned a cell phone? At least one he didn’t have to steal. Never was the correct answer.

A folded paper fell from the side as he remove the cover, this handwriting thinner and lighter than the writing on the outside.

_Stiles-- chris and I scored you an interview at clairemont academy tomorrow. (The kids school). A little testy. Some talky. Boom, best school on the west coast. And if their too pretentious for you, we can get you in at Palisades like yesterday. I’m headed to tokyo bright and early but my number’s in this tiny device, along with Chris’s and the nusaince times 3x. Chris’ll go tomorrow if you want a friendly face. Just let him know. -Peter (and Chris)_

Exactly what his life needed next, private school. He flopped back-- note fluttering to the mattress, phone vibrating too many incoming messages, and bags littering his feet. How long could he lay here and blanket his mind? With his chest a steady rise and fall, his blinking syncopated, and his hearing stretched as far as he could make it, he accepted the challenged. Turned out, for exactly the amount of time he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! What did you all think?
> 
> Thanks for everyone who encouraged me to keep this story going. I'm really happy I did and honestly, can't wait to see what these kids will do next lol.

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part I of a larger plot I planned mentally. The other developments may or may not be written, but I wanted to share the universe with everyone! Can anyone else see this AU as vividly as i can?! Because its still messing me up! Thanks for reading!


End file.
